Page 121 of Resist

“You went missing on me. I was worried. You can’t expect me to sit idly by while I think you’re in danger or trouble.” I figured out a lot more than that, but she doesn’t need to know about how I found that uncle of hers.

And how now it’s going to be awfully fucking hard not to go and wring his neck for what he did to her and Samantha.

“You’re forgiven,” she says through a laugh.

“Besides, I figured it wasn’t that big of a surprise since I was sending you flowers.”

She gives a measured nod. “True . . . but flowers versus just showing up . . . that’s two totally different measures of stalking.”

“Very true,” I say, knowing her forgiveness stands.

“I never pegged you for a flowers-and-gifts kind of guy.”

“Mmm.” Maybe because I’ve never wanted to be that way until you. But I don’t say anything because I’m distracted by her nipples pebbling against her top. My mind veers.

My dick does too.

“Why is it that you always take the husbands and not the wives?”

My laugh is loud as I force my thoughts from her nipples and how hard they get against my tongue when I suck on them. “What was that?”

“Up here, Lockhart.” Vaughn directs my chin so I’m forced to look up and meet the desire in her eyes that matches mine.

“I’m quite fond of down there. And even lower too.” I flash a grin that hints at all the devilish things I want to do to her.

“Cases. Divorces. Wives. Why do you always side with the husbands?”

Successfully directed back to the topic, I give her nipples one quick appreciative look before responding. “I’m a lawyer. I’m a man.” I shrug. And because women are ruthless.

“Oh, this is my favorite part,” she says, who I represent forgotten as she turns and watches the movie she flipped to. I watch her react to the scene, the emotion playing over her features.

I can’t look away.

Goddamn. This woman. The one who watches old classics, cusses without shame, can hold a conversation about almost anything, and has moments like right now where when I watch her, I don’t know what to say.

What the fuck is she doing to me?

“Why do you insist on watching this old movie when there are so many current ones with better quality?”

“Because I like them. They remind me of how Sam and I used to fall asleep as kids. My mom would turn one on, and we’d tuck up against either side of her in her huge bed and then drift off to sleep like that.”

I can see the memory affects her, and I reach out and rub a thumb over her bottom lip. She offers me a soft smile before lying back down so that her cheek is on my bare stomach and her eyes are back on the television.

“Your turn,” she says, throwing me.

“My turn?”

“Tell me something about your mom.”

“Let’s not.” I laugh.

“Seriously, tell me something about her. You can learn a lot about a person from who their mother is.”

“You’ll hold it against me.”

“Don’t be silly. Come on.”

And of course, I talk. I talk when normally I wouldn’t, because she’s shared so much, and what does it hurt to say something about my mom?